This is a love poem to myself
My eyes resemble the waves that crash upon the shores of my pupils, the white foam jagged edges cut into whatever it is that I happen to be looking at
My eyes reflect the storm that little sailor boys are warned about because I will take their ship and I will break it in half
My My eyes are the layers of the blue atmosphere above that holds launching rockets which carry history up to the moon
My eyes are beautiful
This is a poem of what society tells me not to tell myself
My hands are those of a creator, one that creates beauty itself from scrap paper and dried up glue sticks
My hands write poems that leave my pen dry of ink but full of meaning
My hands hold the world in their palms and map out the answers to the questions I ask
My hands are beautiful
This is a poem written in the first person because I don’t need anyone to tell me I’m beautiful except for myself
My scars are the notebook paper lines on which novels of strength are written
My scars show myself , and anyone else worthy of seeing them, that I am a warrior
My scars prove to me that, no matter how many times I’m told otherwise, I can heal and get through each moment
My scars are beautiful
This is a love poem because the only validation I need is from myself
My face owns the smile that Leonardo Da Vinci searched for to paint onto the Mona Lisa
My face is the subject of the marble sculptures that I craft in my own mind
My face is the line of symmetry in between “perfect” and “awe-inspiring” that the photoshop editors try to balance
This is a poem that some will call “Arrogance” but I will title “Reminder For When I Forget”
This is a reminder of my eyes, my hands, my scars, my face
This is a reminder that I am beautiful

if i were to **** myself
it wouldn't be a surprise to anyone
since i'm told to all the time
the people who tried to help me out of this
will cry tears though there are few of them
let them be happy soon hereafter
the people who demanded my blades to my wrist
will smile down upon my blood-drained body
let them be victorious in themselves
the people who didn't know me
will see me as a number in the statistics
let them do powerpoint presentations on my pain
let the people of the world forget i existed
let the people of my world remember my name
let the people who i loved be free
let them

“**** culture”
...
Even the phrase slices my tongue and cuts like a double-edged sword of double standards.
...
The same double standards that say that a girl who wears makeup is a ***** but says that if she doesn’t then she’s ugly.
...
The same double standards that say that if a girl wears a skirt then she’s desperate but if she wears jeans then she’s stiff.
...
Double standards that keep even the strongest girls asking “Who am I supposed to be?”
...
The double standard that require **** kits with pamphlets like pamphlets are gonna help us get better.
...
**** culture requires underwear for women with a lock on it, password and all! Buy one get one free, not of the underwear, but the rapists!
...
**** culture, the same one you see on the news and in the streets and schools and stores and malls and parks and sports and on the ******* sidewalks.
…
This next line is for the man in the beaten up red car who cat-called me when I was 15 while I was walking to my friends house last summer: No thanks, I don't want to “smile, little mama”
…
This line is to the sixth grade teacher in my old school district who was fired for sexually harassing and abusing his students: Who do you think you are to be putting your hands up shirts of 12 year old girls?
…
This next line is for the man on the news who said “Well she was wearing a skirt, so she was practically asking for it” Excuse me, sir, but that glass ceiling was made of glass it was just asking to be smashed, right?
...
The patriarchy shatters around their fragile masculinity and breaks into one thousand pieces before cutting the survivor’s wrists because no one ever believes them.
...
This is the stigma that is delivered upon the doorstep of **** culture’s house by the UPS worker named “Societal Pressures”. The package that no one wants to receive. It knocks at your door but you try to keep it locked.
...
“Knock knock?” “Who’s there?” “**** joke” “**** joke who?” “**** joke who isn’t ******* funny”.
...
**** culture is the societal pressure that is put on us to be beautiful, not for ourselves, but for the man who sees us every morning.
...
**** culture is the demand to smile for the old man that we just passed on the street near the bakery but keeping our mouths shut when we have something to say.
...
**** culture is standing in front of the mirror everyday before school making sure that I can't be targeted for anything that I'm wearing. Looking at every seem, every angle, every button and zipper.
...
**** culture is how I (along with my friends) can't walk by a group of boys without pulling up our already uncomfortably high necklines and ducking our heads.
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**** culture runs in the veins of every girl, woman, and man that is subject to society.
...
**** culture is the phrase I'm not supposed to say but I say anyway because I deserve to be heard.

I am temporary,
But somehow,
It seems like we
Are forever

You deserve more
But when you hold me
I am convinced
That you will never let go

And when you speak
Your words form together
And string phrases
That echo within my head

And somehow
I know I will go
And I know
You will leave me first

But every minute
And every day
Seems to stretch further
Into the cave of my memory

You tell me I'm beautiful
And though the words are hard to hear
You become the only thing with me
And we are our own temporary Forever

i cant express to you how much i wish you were here

if you were here right now

we would stare at the stars laying side by side

you would sing me a song

and i would be okay

if you were sitting next to me

you would have your hand around my hips

and your head on my shoulder

and you would call me beautiful

and i would believe you

if you were holding my hand right now

i would squeeze our palms together

and i would never let go even when you left

and the world would be full of poems you wrote

if you were holding me

you would kiss my lips

and see your eyes as they see mine for once

i would realize that i love you

though ive realized it dozens of times before

if you were here right now

i would kiss you and laugh

and tell you i love you

and hope that you would say the same

I'm sorry... is this not "real life"? I must have walked through the wrong door. You see: I walked through the door that had the word "reality" engraved across it's chestnut wood. I walked through the door that had the burning handle so hot it branded me with the truth on my palm when I turned the ****. I walked through the door that was jammed shut with the stuffings of lies that I've told myself for the past how ever many centuries. I walked through the same door that you did, seemingly, since that was the only door that I saw. So how, excuse me for asking, is your reality any more "real life" than mine? You tell me that I should be preparing for the "real world" but how is this not real enough for you? If this isn't the real world than how does anyone survive real life. Just because we're kept in an institution that shoves unnecessary knowledge down our already tear-choked throats doesn't mean this isn't real. Just because we don't know how we feel about the crazy world around us doesn't mean this isn't real. Just because you can't seem to respect us like we respect the rest of you doesn't mean for one second that this isn't real. I sincerely apologize if you've been put under the false pretense that I'm living a fairy-tale because I'm not. I sincerely apologize if, this whole time, you thought that I was writing the perfect dream poem of love for myself, because I wasn't. I sincerely apologize if you saw me and thought that I was some fantastic princess who smiles and sings to birds, because I don't. I don't understand how you don't think this isn't real life because I certainly do. So does the girl who doesn't even want to live anymore, this is real life to her and it hurts her. So does the guy who just killed himself because he can't handle the academic rocks that settle in his stomach when he hears the words "high school" or "homework". I certainly think this is real life, or are the lines on my wrists just plots to another princess story you were told when you were young. Are the scars just the structural integrity for the castle you dreamed of as a little kid with pointed roofs. I certainly think this is real life because tripping into love and falling out again hurts us just as much as it hurts you. I certainly think this is real life because my stress is just as heavy as yours it just goes by a different nickname. Call it academic or peer or life but stress is stress and my threshold has a different line than yours. Don't tell me this isn't real life just because your fire-breathing dragon breathes fire that burns brighter blue than mine. Don't tell me this isn't real life just because your hair has to be longer to let down and to climb up. Don't tell me this isn't real life just because you're prince-charming took longer to rescue you than mine did. Because I am my own dragon. I am my own ladder to climb. I am my own prince-charming and I'll save myself from this life. Because this is real life, and if it isn't, then I'm never going to make it.

3/18/2019
I don't know what I'm saying
This is a foreign language
It balances on the tip of my tongue
And crawls around the roof of my mouth
This is a romance language more romantic than
Spanish, or French, or Italian
This accent is startling but softer still I whisper
As you murmur sweet pieces of everything into my ear
You seem to be fluent in this language
As if love was your first spoken tongue
While I stumble over the words unable to say a simple phrase
The phrase unspoken for fear of mispronunciation
Because it's so easy to say wrong
Because vulnerability is another dialect I do not speak
Though it flows off of your tongue so easily
As if your teeth are sure of where they land
And your lips form the words that I need to hear
Even though I never knew I needed to hear them
This language that I don't speak
Comes from a country where the most beautiful people live
Where the happiest of smiles look up to the sky
Where the hearts are pure and simple and loving
But I do not come from that country
And my passport was brand new and unused
I have learned to live by myself on my own island of walls
The walls I build to keep out those who care
For I might hurt them if they came in
But you speak words that fill the cracks
And the love you give expands and breaks the wall
And you teach me this language I don't quite understand why
But you make sure that I know myself
Before I know you
Or the language
Or the world around me
You flew me to that country on an airplane made of the clouds themselves
And taught me this language that I will never forget
This language of love and happiness
This language of you and me
This language of the world as it should be